


Snapshot

by nothingwrongwiththerain



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Daisy is a good friend, Daisy listens exclusively to 90s lesbian bands, Disabled Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Happiest Ending your gonna get around here, Jon Has A Cane, Jon Knows things, M/M, Season/Series 04, and I take it, basically Jon freaks out, i see a chance for angst, it isnt fun, sort of missing scene ?, with good reason
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:22:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24543028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingwrongwiththerain/pseuds/nothingwrongwiththerain
Summary: In his peripheral Jon saw Melanie pause over whatever colored square she inadvertently freed. Heard her soft ‘I fucking knew it’ as he pressed the lid down on what he might Know, closing her discovery from his awareness. All that slid past was a muddied sense of pure conviction, faded and derisive. Unexpected. What the hell was pinned to the fridge Melanie of all people felt strongly about?That pale curiosity drove Jon to unfold his spine as she circled back to Daisy, now joined by Basira.“What you got there?” Daisy asked.“Proof.”Anybody else re-listen to season 1 and realize that not!them misses some photographs, specifically polaroid’s ? Anybody think there might be a photo of Sasha floating around the Institute somewhere? And maybe it wasn’t found until s4 ? And that might be really emotionally damaging for Jon to see ??Damn would that be messed up or what.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner
Comments: 23
Kudos: 200





	Snapshot

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings. This fic was born from the awful terrible realization photographic evidence of Sasha could hypothetically remain and how would that make you feel ?? probably not great. So I inflict this upon you, dear readers. 
> 
> No tw this time! just a sad tired man with his Emotional Support Daisy cause I love their relationship

Lunch breaks for the Archival staff distinctly lacked formality. From the beginning of his appointment, Jon saw no reason to enforce time restraints Elias imposed on the staff upstairs. Jon handpicked Tim and Sasha and had no qualms about their work ethic. As for Martin... at the time Jon was well aware he was too busy being snotty and repressed to speak to his assistant anymore than was strictly necessary. 

Jon snorted, recollecting the attitude and persona he considered vital for his promotion. Ancient history. How ramrod straight he held his spine, clipped self important steps passing his assistants desks to pace around the dusty maze of files. Hell, he used to pack a lunch. Far cry from the scavenged stale half sandwich he was peeling the crust off today, slumped over the shoddy break room table. Tucked in at his new normal behind the couch, in front of the counter, his chair destined to collide with the cluttered fridge door when it was opened more than halfway. 

His state of dress wasn’t any less condemning than his posture. He couldn’t remember pressing a shirt this year, the baggy sweater he absconded from the spare room laundry pile pooled around his waist and constantly spilled over his cold hands. There was a rip across the knee of his dark pants that matched the line of a ropey scar beneath, the origin of which he didn’t recall. His hair hadn’t felt a brush in months, unruly bangs clipped back with a hot pink barrette of unknown origin. He had found it that morning, rattling in his desk drawer with some loose paperclips and an empty pill case for company.

“Quite the fashion statement.” Daisy deadpanned when Jon stumbled in, searching for people food to supplement his diet of stale statements. His stomach started growling an hour ago and the dizziness pulsing behind his dry eyes drove him from his isolated office. Daisy was stretched across the couch, the inverse of Melanie’s tight curl over the opposing armrest. Jon sincerely doubted either of the women had moved since he clocked them that morning. He wondered banally if the other Institute members resented their near constant occupation of the break room. Come to think of it, Jon didn’t think he had seen anyone but his renegade Archival staff at the couch or table in months. 

The Knowledge Rosie purchased a mini fridge because of them, a researcher named Frank was filing weekly complaints (which Elias regularly binned) and the sandwich Jon was nibbling on had been abandoned by a student scared off when Basira violently threatened the microwave all dropped messily into Jon’s head. As so much of his Knowing, the details were unbidden, unlooked for, and unwanted. A leaky faucet of snappy office gossip and inadvertent trivia; the eye color of each staff member Melanie growled at for failing to rinse their mugs slipped past as well. 

Jon let his head drop to the table with a thunk, avoiding the sandwich by mere centimeters. 

“Lunch that good, huh?” 

Melanie had crossed the room while Jon was being silently accosted by useless facts. He rolled his head sideways to watch her browsing the ‘free’ shelf in the fridge. 

“That orange is rotten.” 

Melanie glared as Jon blearily realized she hadn’t reached for the fruit yet. Oops. 

“I told you not to do that,” she said, stepping on his mumbled apology and slamming the fridge door shut. A cheap magnet older than Jon’s tenure at the Institute hit the kitchen tile with a pleased little click, descent chased by a thin flutter of paper. Jon rolled his head back and tried Not To Know. The intentional resistance worked, for a moment. He had no clue what Melanie jarred off the fridge door. 

In his peripheral Jon saw Melanie pause over whatever colored square she inadvertently freed. Heard her soft _‘I fucking knew it’_ as he pressed the lid down on what he might Know, closing her discovery from his awareness. All that slid past was a muddied sense of pure conviction, faded and derisive. Unexpected. What the hell was pinned to the fridge Melanie of all people felt strongly about?

That pale curiosity drove Jon to unfold his spine as she circled back to Daisy, now joined by Basira. 

“What you got there?” Daisy asked. 

“Proof.” Melanie paused. Jon sat up straighter. _Proof of what._ She presented them with what Jon took to be a photo. “Do you see something... off with this?”

“Other than Jon smiling?” Basira quipped.

Daisy cocked her head to the side, quiet. She was turned away; Jon couldn’t read her expression. 

“No.” Melanie tapped the photograph. “Who is that?”

“I don’t know,” Basira said, “but that is a lot of candles.” 

Jon’s heart sank. Of course. Martin had that old polaroid camera, ages ago. There used to be dozens of images taped around; Tim “borrowed” it constantly. The lo fi charm, Jon realized. Must have been. 

A memory crawled up, of Tim lighting up a cake and snatching the camera from Martin’s desk – what was Martin’s desk, before Peter – the flash bright. Candles to be blown out. A birthday party. His birthday. 

‘Birthday’ turned out to be the exact wrong concept to ponder while nostalgic and distracted. The accumulative dates and plans and shoddily wrapped presents he was capable of Knowing about the Institute staff accosted him. He was so deep in the waves of generic birthday wishes and brightly ripped paper Jon almost didn’t catch Melanie’s response.

“You said you interviewed all the Archive staff. You would have had to meet her.”

“What do you mean?” Basira asked sharply. 

“It’s like I said last year,” Melanie insisted. “That’s the girl who used to work here – I knew I’d recognize her. And Jon said she didn’t exist.”

The end of her statement was directed at him, Melanie’s tone breaking the surface tension of his Knowing flood. 

Melanie stalked over to where Jon sat, immobile. “That,” she said, brandishing the polaroid until it came to a halt a foot from his nose, “is the girl I met when I gave my first statement. We had a whole talk about haunted pubs!” Melanie pointed to a figure in the photo, “That is Sasha.”

The image was almost blurry, candle shadows playing havoc with the flash. Jon was sat in the middle, attempting a smile. Elias was lurking in the background. Martin stood to the left, hands out, no doubt exasperated at Tim’s handling of his camera. And to the right, head tilted, her curls a twisting cascade, grin wide, eyes bright, sweater askew – she was constantly adjusting the purple one –charm on her necklace turned backwards, hand resting on Jon’s shoulder – was Sasha. 

Jon couldn’t breathe. 

Melanie didn’t notice. “I’m right, aren’t I?” She pulled the photo back, intent on examining it more closely. “For someone none of you remember, you all looked pretty close.” She tutted. 

Melanie had taken the photo away but the image was burned into his mind. The polaroid was proof. The Sasha captured in that photo looked nothing like the other, the distorted and warped replica that wormed its way into their lives, sat at her desk, parroted her role and feigned concern. The real Sasha – she had been pinned to the fridge long before the Prentiss incident. Untouched, Jon abruptly Knew, until the imposter slid a magnet mere inches to cover her face. Proof, like Melanie said. In front of them everyday, from before and after. Smiling away.

“Seriously, you don’t have anything to say?” Melanie demanded. “Just look.” She pushed it towards him again. 

Jon scrambled backwards violently, falling off his chair with a hard smack. He felt it all the way up his bad leg, grimy tiles slick under his hands as he frantically pushed away. Shoes scrabbling, his back hit the cabinets and a second painful thunk carried across the room. Jon bit down on a shout as his body screamed.

“The hell–”

“What did you do?” 

“I didn’t!”

“Jon are you–”

They were all speaking, words colliding above him in a kaleidoscope of demands, aggression, confusion. 

Grabbing, clinging to the counter Jon forced his protesting body to standing. He careened off the table and shoved past Melanie’s disapproval, forgoing his cane entirely. Blind, uncalculated desperation pushed him to the door and down the hall ahead of the other’s reactions. He took corners at random, barely remembering the layout of the damn building trapping them all. 

Jon couldn’t move fast enough, couldn’t take enough unpredicted turns to escape the rushing torrent in his mind. There were two faces in conflict across the memories he fought to force back. Amid the conversations and jokes and requests for a new stapler they blurred and melted. First the other, then the first, then both at once. Merged and twisted to form a new distorted thing. Expressions delighted and terrified. Dark frizzy hair stuck at inadvertent angles flickered as Sasha sat in his office, arm freshly bandaged. At odds with the blond hair framing a new face as she related pulling the fire alarm, of taking a fateful turn into artifact storage. The curve of one pair of lips distinctly and nonsensically insisting on the pronunciation of calliope. Nothing like the vacant disappointment she– it– _the other_ pulled when the computer failed to authenticate.

Expressions, height, hair, glasses – Sasha wore glasses, the other had not, how could he have missed that – all of it pounding and crashing and a vicious, deep Knowledge permeating it all, their first and last words echoing and combining, lost, panicked, afraid, triumphant, a scream. I see you. I see you. I see you, I see you, I see you, 

_I SEE YOU._

“Sir.” 

A demand cut across the horrible menagerie of faces, hands, confusion. 

“Sir this area is off limits to the public.” 

Louder now, impatient professionalism of an unseen source. Jon pressed his forehead tighter against his knees. He didn’t remember sitting. With his head down, Jon’s new hairclip dug into the side of his face. The flash of pink, it wasn’t his. His fingers blindly closed around the barrette, yanking at his hair at the memory of Sasha – his Sasha – pinning her bangs back near the end of the week. When she noticed Jon fighting with his hair and offered her clip with a laugh, leaving it on his desk. When he used it later that night, after the others left. At odds with the other, the stranger wearing the clip when it found such a bright color in Jon’s drawer and took it. Took it away to make him forget the gifting, Jon Knew. Lost, until Martin found it and put the barrette back in Jon’s desk, he Knew that too. 

“SIR. If you have a valid statement,” her skepticism was thick, “you must check in at the front desk. Otherwise I will have to call security.” 

“No need for that.” 

Jon hadn’t uncurled a shaking inch but since The Buried he hadn’t needed his sight to recognize Daisy.

“This... gentleman is unresponsive,” the voice said, contempt abundant at Jon’s unkempt everything. “He does not belong up here.” 

No, Jon agreed privately, he didn’t. Didn’t belong anywhere. 

“I’ll take care of him.” Daisy said firmly, line separating threat and direction a haze.

“He is trespassing. I’m not sure what department you’re from, but–” The staff member broke off, scandalized. Jon heard Daisy stepping close, pressure of her shoulder pressing to his side as she sat on the floor beside him. 

“Look I don’t know who–”

“Archival Assistant.” Daisy said, louder than Jon had heard her in some time. Silence reigned over a weighted pause. “Now you know who I am.” There was a bite, a teeth baring annunciation to her tone. “Still want to call security?” 

“Uh, no. No.” 

“Get on then.” 

“Oh!” In a tapping of flustered heels the hallway was vacated, leaving Jon and Daisy alone. 

The sheer ridiculousness of being mistaken for a civilian and Daisy’s conversation incrementally brought Jon back to the Institute corridor. The conflict of faces remained swirling, burning behind it all but the pressure of Daisy’s shoulder was grounding. Real. Jon gradually identified the sound of his own unsteady breathing. 

Any greater awareness and he might have startled when Daisy pushed his hair aside and unceremoniously shoved an earbud in. There was the sound of screen tapping, precluding the low notes of KD Lang’s Recollection spilling through. Jon recognized the tune; Daisy was predictable in her music choices, the same artists cycled with alarming regularity. 

The first play through started when she found him unsteadily cleaning the mess of an overturned file box, stooping to help as her phone speaker filled his office with the same blurry beats. A week prior, the same lyrics crooned while he was pretending to nap in the spare room. She had curled up on the floor after picking the music and stealing two pillows. 

Memories unburdened by the influence of The Stranger gave him clear moments to cling to. Bit by bit Jon found he could unclench his hands, letting his arms drop to the floor. In one hand the clip glinted, imprint of a flower pressed deep into his palm. His legs slid out next, painfully, taking up half the walkway. Jon didn’t care about sprawling in public places anymore than he cared about letting his head tip to rest on Daisy’s shoulder. Below her shoulder really. She was very tall. 

When she shifted Jon wearily checked her hands for any sign of the damned photo, but she was adjusting a loose grip on her cracked phone, nothing more. Music droned on, lyrics half familiar and tracing incomplete paths in his mind. Jon could feel the vibrations from Daisy’s throat, her humming off key but in time with the beat. 

He didn’t know how long they sat there. Word must have gotten around; no other staff came stumbling across the two of them in their newly claimed stretch of hallway. 

“Could you,” Jon stopped. Cleared his throat. Felt Daisy turn her head to watch the top of his. “Could you ask Melanie not to share the – the,” he couldn’t say photograph. Made it real. “Share it,” Jon settled on, “with Martin? I don’t think it would be wise. Or helpful.” 

Daisy considered his words. “Don’t you think that should be his choice?” 

Jon shut his eyes, tight. She was right. Wasn’t his place. But– “I think it would do more harm than good,” he admitted. “Knowing what she looked like doesn’t change, the, the,” good intention stuck in his throat, “oh god Daisy,” Jon choked out. The pressure was back, threatening to crack, spiking to drown out the music. “That, that has been there the whole time. We could have – I should have–”

“Yeah,” Daisy interrupted. “Maybe you could have. Any of you, any of us could have done a lot of things different Jon.” Her voice grew softer, almost inaudible with the music pulsing steadily in his ear. “Doesn’t make it your fault.”

Her quiet conviction broke an entirely different part of Jon. Whatever flimsy reparations he put up to stave off the inevitable breakdown were obliterated by her kindness. 

Jon gave a hiccup, a little half chocked noise of warning and Daisy was abruptly side by side with an Archivist pushed over the emotional edge. Jon tried to hide the flood of tears and snot by crumpling over his chest - but Daisy was having none of it. He didn’t even have a chance to flail. 

Catching him by the shoulder she forced him none to gently into an awkward side hug, rolling up the music volume with her free hand. Jon was too disorientated to do anything but let himself be crushed. He didn’t mean to– he had been so stupid– still she didn’t blame him. He buried his face in her shoulder and cried. 

All the what ifs and heartache spilled out between sobs, his shoulders heaving. All of it slowly blurring to the continual beat of the music and the very, very light touch of Daisy’s hand in his hair.

By some indeterminate point, Daisy decided they had sat there for a sufficient period of time. Hauling Jon to standing by his armpits – for all The Buried attempted to crush the life out of her, she remained strong – she pushed the other earbud in and dragged him to the spare room. Without his cane she took nearly half his weight, without a single misstep. Jon let himself be manhandled, dazed. 

He stood propped against the door frame, her phone stuffed in his back pocket as she organized the heaping pile of blankets and pillows amassed over the years. When the nest was arranged to her liking she deposited Jon in the middle and crawled in next to him. Took back her phone and paused the music. 

Jon turned, blinking slowly. Daisy was studying him. Not with the critical intensity Basira inflicted or the barely restrained frustration of Melanie. Daisy simply held him in silent contemplation. Not demanding. Looking. Waiting, patient, an unasked question. 

He took out the earbuds shakily and inhaled slowly. Swallowed. “Thank you. For finding me.” Jon’s voice barely reached his own ears. 

Daisy nodded all the same. “You’re welcome.” She reached up, carding a handful of his bangs back and snapping the barrette into place; “I do like this clip”. Jon blinked again. He hadn’t realized he dropped it, much less she picked it up. The pressure was light, kept him present. 

“Now,” she said, waving her phone at him. “Archers?” 

Jon didn’t expect the smile that quirked his lips, covered it by ducking his head and offering Daisy one of the earbuds. “Up to you.”

“Fine by me.” 

They settled in, work and statements and fears put aside for now. Leaning into Daisy, Jon lost himself in the drone of the inconsequential, tired and drained but not alone.

**Author's Note:**

> this was gonna have 2 chapters with Martin seeing the photo in Elias' End Of The World Giftbasket but 170 blasted my plot bunny to high heck an I got demoralized, sorry y'all. might come back to it but didn't want to leave it as 1/2 chapters on a maybe. 
> 
> SHOUTOUT to Vera for providing Daisy's taste in music I was adrift and that tag is allllll you


End file.
